


Elena

by Leara



Series: Trouble in Toronto [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blackhill AU, Detective AU, F/F, blackhill - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:28:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leara/pseuds/Leara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canadian Cops AU (Trouble In Toronto). </p><p>The relationship between Natasha and her mother has always been complicated. A recent case of Natasha's tests the estranged and tense relation when Natasha is forced to bring along her partner-and-girlfriend Maria after catching her mother lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elena

**Author's Note:**

> To those who are unfamiliar with this AU, I suggest reading part 1, and if you have any questions about the AU, I will respond to comments daily and you can always hit me up on tumblr (username xwiidow)

Natasha’s hands tightened into fists when she saw the name on the paper, until the pen protested and emitted a creaky noise that told her the plastic had broken. Startled, she put the pen down, cursing under her breath. With a swift movement on her calf, she brought the trashcan close enough to discard the mistreated writing utensil and sighed.  She looked around to check if someone had noticed the little display of turmoil, content to report that no one seemed to have noticed, and even if they had, they were no looking bizarrely at her, questions in their eyes.

Her eyes fell upon the paper once more, hoping that she’d read incorrectly. There were after all so many women named—oh, no, such was not the case. She had been right the first time.

She was honestly not surprised to find Elena’s name on the list of preliminary suspects although she doubted that her mother had been the person to fire three bullets into Crista Delaney’s skull. She was sitting with the list of attendees for a private party-turned-public at the _Designée Café_ , who were technically all potential murder suspects. Sighing, she wondered why the migraine always seemed to appear when she dealt with her mother. Even though she had not seen Elena for almost two years, the woman still called regularly, much to Natasha’s nuisance. At least she had ceased her accusations, now incessantly bothering her about her social life instead. Natasha was unsure which she preferred, although if given the option, she would prefer neither.

Chewing on her lip, she glared at the paper as if sheer protest would make her mother’s name disappear. She owed her mother no allegiance and was not interested in shifting the attention, however casual and systematic, from her mother. She simply thought that pursuing the angle of a forty-two-year-old washed-up actress a waste of both time and departmental resources. Hers was far from the most exotic name on the list, ranging from low-level drug dealers and college students to the ensemble of one of the Bears’ rising lieutenants. Frankly, the fact that Crista had been the only one shot there was remarkable.

Natasha knew what the procedurally correct thing to do would be: report the relation and have someone else do the call-ups and interviews. The blood relation alone was cause for legal inquiry in court. Yet it was obvious that Elena did not have anything to do with the murder. Elena might be a selfish person and an unfit mother, and maybe even smalltime criminal, but a murderer she was not. Procedure called for inquiry regardlessly. Natasha could have rolled her eyes when she lifted the phone to call, cringing internally and massaging the forming headache at her temples.

Although the others might not think it obvious, the reluctance that Natasha felt was plain to her. Firstly, she had vowed long ago to avoid her mother and her affairs at all possible costs. Elena had only been around on rare occasions throughout Natasha’s childhood. There were criminals in the _Bratva_ whom she’d known better than her flimsy, amoral mother. Ivan had all but taken her in when Elena had returned to Toronto with her. A teenage pregnancy had turned into a tragic childhood when Elena Bezhukova, aged seventeen, had fallen pregnant and birthed a healthy daughter. Sadly, motherhood had not become her or changed her reckless ways, resulting in practical abandonment of baby Natalia. It had not sufficed to discourage Natasha to abandon her mother in return until many tragic episodes in which Elena had showed where her true loyalties lay.

Natasha did not hate the woman, but she could not bring herself to muster care for Elena, simply daughterly concern for the woman who had after all brought her into this world. She was the only parent Natasha had, and had been the furthest thing from parent material. It was frankly remarkable that Natasha had not turned out more fucked up. Bizarrely, a lot of it she could attribute to Ivan.

She tightened her fists once more.

Dialing the number, she quickly composed herself. It was ridiculous to allow herself to be upset about things that had been unchangeable for years. She told herself this every time the phone rang.

Once. (It was silly really, allowing old hurt to upset her).

Twice. (She was an adult. An officer of the _law_ ).

Thrice. (It was a settled matter; accepted by the time Natasha had been twelve. Why now?)

Fou—“Elena speaking. Who is this?”

Natasha stiffened, held in a sigh, and wondered if this was her mother’s ‘work’ phone. The question as to her identity could be explained by the fact that Natasha had not distributed her phone number to her.

“Natasha,” she said quickly, to the point.

“ _Tash_?” The pronunciation was far from flattering and akin to the exasperation of an adolescent. Natasha almost expected a squeal, but stopped whatever ideas Elena was getting.

“I’m calling because of work.”

“ _Oh_.” The monosyllabic response said it all and somehow managed to carry all the complex feelings between them and Elena’s opinion about her daughter having become a cop. Natasha held her breath, waiting for the scolding. It never came. “What about it?” Elena said, disinterested.

“Where were you Saturday at 11pm?” She had to ask, wondering if the woman would lie, as she already knew that security tapes placed Elena at the scene of the crime. Now, if only that crime scene hadn’t also been one of the year’s biggest parties.

“Is this about the shooting? I heard on the news that some girl died.”

‘Some girl’ had been a 29-year-old prostitute. Natasha wondered why on Earth someone would still refer to her as a girl when she’d been months away from the big 3-O. The carelessness with which her mother mentioned it was akin to the one people would use when referring to groceries.

“You were there?” She made it sound like a question as to not antagonize the woman.

“Yes,” she said, “I was. What’s it to you? I ain’t seen nothing.” All that Elena was missing was the chewing gum and she’d nail the part as annoying teen #2.

“I’m a _cop_.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “And you were at the scene of the crime.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Elena insisted in obvious, gullible annoyance. “So what? So were a lot of people that night. It was busy.”

Natasha eyed the list once more. She confirmed that, knowing that her list excluded the staff that had been working that night and anyone who’d slipped in. She almost couldn’t believe that she was talking to her mother about this, of all people. “Did you see anything?”

“Natasha,” said the mother as if she was about to offer platitudes. “You know you can’t ask me that. You’re a cop. And I’m not your T.I. or whatever.”

“C.I.,” Natasha corrected automatically although she knew that it didn’t matter to Elena.

“A snitch’s a snitch, Tash.”

Natasha’s hand balled into a fist again, and she clenched her jaw. Her mother wasn’t smart but she had to give it to her; the woman had always understood consequences of talking to cops. She briefly wondered if Elena was still being harassed. Having your daughter turn in the boss could not have done her good. But like Natasha (or perhaps due to it), Elena was a survivor. Too bad she was on the wrong side of things for it to do any good.

“The murder. Did you see Crista—the girl who got murdered?” she rephrased, using Elena’s own words. Her mother was not particularly good with names.

“Might have.” It sounded like a shrug accompanied the statement. “She was alright when I did. Worked the johns, but it didn’t look like it was going anywhere.”

“What makes you say that?” Natasha asked, scribbling down on the notepad beside her, frowning at Elena’s words. It was unlikely to be a solid lead—like Elena had insinuated, she wasn’t giving anyone up, not even when it was to her own daughter. She supposed that that was where they were different, she thought with a wince.

“It wasn’t her lucky day. John seemed too busy to notice her assets. You know how it is.”

It had been a long time since Natasha had ‘known how it was’, but she made a noise to let her know that she got her picture. “Who was the john?”

“Ah-ah,” Elena said.

“There were a lot of people there,” she reminded her, trying to reason with her and get her to give up whoever she’d seen. “Anyone could have seen it. Anyone could have told me this.”

“Then have _those_ people grilled. I’m your mother, Elena. Why are you calling about this? Are you saying you don’t trust your own mother?”

“Not for a minute,” Natasha replied dryly. She didn’t trust Elena as far as she could throw her, but she did trust her to always disappoint and be Elena, selfishly so.

“You were always a cruel child,” the woman spat childishly.

“You were never around to know that,” Natasha huffed, mentally cursing at herself for dragging herself into Elena’s ways. There was a reason why they rarely talked, Natasha’s inability to forgive Elena being one of them and Elena’s crude comments another.

“And see how you turned out because of it. You are so ungrateful,” Elena murmured, her mood clearly having turned foul when this call had turned into accusations of poor parenting and daughterly betrayals. “Mickey was following her,” she sighed, hanging up.

Natasha blinked quizzically at the phone, tore off the page from the notepad and crumbled it with a groan.

“Mothers,” she uttered under her breath, but decided to get a new page and wrote Mickey Thompson on it. It was a lead, despite the fact that it had been from her mother, of all people.


End file.
